


Glory

by shoutz



Series: human, like the rest of us [1]
Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: Alucard is in awe, Drinking, Introspection, M/M, Trevor is a force of nature, catching a case of the feels, i don't know how to tag, vague violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 13:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12169380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoutz/pseuds/shoutz
Summary: [Alternate title: Gresit II: softly, but with a lot of feeling]Translated into Russianby @whitegreenwall on twitter!They’re not in Gresit. It doesn’t matter.What matters is… Well.What matters is that Trevor Belmont is completely, immeasurably, and inconceivably unstoppable.





	Glory

They’re not in Gresit. It doesn’t matter.

What matters is… Well.

What matters is that Trevor Belmont is completely, immeasurably, and inconceivably unstoppable.

The demon hordes are falling hard upon another poor, defenseless town. They never caught its name. It doesn’t matter. The moment they had visual on the flying monsters swooping low on the village, a wordless sentiment passed between the three of them, one that so clearly declared: we have to help. There’s no other choice. Before even a moment of hesitation or planning had passed, Trevor was breaking out into a run towards the commotion, with Sypha and Alucard following at his heels.

Now, in the thick of the fight, Trevor barks order after order at the denizens of the village, and they obey without question. His tone is solid stone and iron beneath the feet of these people who would otherwise be dead or dying in the streets of this small town which time forgot. They cling to it like it’s their last lifeline. Rightfully so. Alucard finds himself doing the same, albeit from a distance.

A certain brand of needle-sharp focus creases across the hunter’s brow, something similar to and yet wholly dissimilar from the tenacious look he sported during their first fateful fight. Alucard finds it refreshing, now that it isn’t directed towards his demise.

 _Truly,_ Alucard thinks, _he is the last of a dying breed._ The vigor with which he fights, the expertise and control he commands over the otherwise mortifying situation, it’s inspiring in ways Alucard would never have guessed possible for someone so… garish. So indelicate. So brutal and harsh and _Belmont._ He had seen glimpses of this in their first meeting, in the way Trevor’s heart barely leapt when he was moments away from being drained alive, but this…this is an entirely different monster. Alucard finds himself mesmerized, taking full advantage of his ability to watch without worrying about a consecrated whip or silver short sword piercing his flesh.

This poor town, small as it is, lacks the proper amount of able-bodied fighters and weapons with which to arm them, and it forces Trevor to change his strategy slightly from the attack on Gresit. Instead, he makes use of a great deal of salt from the inn and two priests: one local and one who had just happened to stop in this town instead of the one a few miles further down his path.

Belmont's plan works, to Alucard’s complete lack of surprise.

Luckily, the town isn’t populous enough to attract a horde as big as the one that attacked Gresit. Alucard hadn’t been there in the flesh, of course, but Sypha was kind enough to fill him in on the details one night as their fearless hunter ventured off to gather firewood. Even she, although she was loathe to admit it, had found his conviction inspiring, as did Gresit’s residents and the million others before him who have been saved by the glory of Trevor Belmont.

Glory, because it’s the only word Alucard can think to use in describing this effect.

Really, after all those language and literature lessons in his youth from his mother, the best word he can come up with is _glory._ Five letters that are nowhere near enough to describe how it feels to watch Trevor Belmont in his element.

Seeing the determination set throughout Trevor’s entire being, even before they had set foot in the town, almost convinces Alucard they could take Dracula head-on that very night. The picture paints itself vividly in Alucard’s mind: that look on Trevor’s face as he charges towards Dracula’s castle, whip in hand, ready for whatever monsters or madness that might be thrown his way. It’s foolish to think, and his more sensible half doesn’t hesitate to remind him of that. But the optimism is nice, for a change.

The prophetic three are the picture of composure and strength, with Trevor Belmont as its centerpiece. He swings and cracks his whip with characteristic expertise, sweeping away the stragglers that Sypha doesn’t manage to hit with her shards of ice made from the holy water. Of course, Alucard helps too, in the shadows.

He knows, _intimately,_ how the people of this village would react to someone like him. Poorly. Trevor knows this as well, so they decide that Alucard will keep his distance and instead stalk along the outskirts and pick off any demons who decide they want to play clever, rather than calling attention to himself in the fray. Being a wallflower is easy when the people around him are more concerned with living than carefully studying the pale, well-dressed stranger helping them get back to their loved ones and the safety of numbers in the town’s square. The darkness and panic allow him to keep a low profile; the injured and afflicted straggling along the edges of the town don’t thank him and he doesn’t expect them to.

Naturally, there are a few close calls. With so many demons and so few to fight them, injuries are abound, especially for Trevor. Sypha batters them back and keeps them at a safe distance with the ice and the holy water, but Trevor on his own with his whip and short sword, effective as he is, is a bit less safe. The infamous Vampire Killer can only reach so far. Alucard sees him capture the attention of most of the monsters, and he accordingly ends up with the most injuries: mostly shallow scratches dripping blood in slow streams from his cheek, his neck, his chest and arms and torso. He feels an urge to jump forward, to shield and protect Belmont from these adversaries, but he doesn’t need the help. A bolt of lightning doesn’t need help striking the earth beneath it. It simply _does_. Trevor fights in much of the same fashion.

Still, the gut reaction lingers every time Alucard looks to see three, five, seven demons attacking Belmont at once. It pulls forth a deep-seated, sickening anxiety, because what if it’s truly too much? What if Belmont — undoubtedly the most capable of the humans in this fight — can’t fend them all off? The townsfolk would mourn him, of course, should they somehow survive the night without him. They would feel remorse and grief over their savior’s death, just as they’d mourn their own dead. But they’re not attached to him — they don’t _need_ him. Not as much as Alucard does.

They make quick work of the flying beasts; the skies and streets are clear well before sunrise. Other than the errant abrasion or spooked child, the death and injury counts are surprisingly and refreshingly low. They plan on holding a pyre for the few corpses in the morning.

In the end, the city is grateful for their help — specifically Trevor’s — and they show it chiefly through the generosity of the innkeep. The rest of the town’s natives headed back to their newly safe homes for the night, leaving the inn’s tavern blissfully empty. Sypha has the good sense to head straight to her room and sleep, exhausted by the night’s efforts. Trevor, on the other hand, sits by the hearth in the tavern, still burning gently with small orange flickers that do little and less to dry his snow-laden clothes and damp hair.

Light glints off his eyes as he stares hollowly into the glow. They shine with something grave, something horribly vulnerable and, at the same time, guarded with years upon years of emotional repression, covering his feelings with salt and iron and all manner of sharp, deadly things.

Alucard decides that he wouldn’t mind being staked with those sharp, deadly things.

So, he takes a seat next to Trevor. He startles out of his thoughts but he doesn’t seem apprehensive towards Alucard, merely nonplussed. He shifts in his seat, and the gold crest on his tunic winks at Alucard in the firelight.

“What do you want?” The words lack the bite expected of the usually smart-mouthed Belmont, but it’s understandable. He’s tired, they all are.

“I’m surprised you’re still awake,” Alucard voices his concern, keeping a carefully casual distance from Trevor.

He hitches one shoulder up in an aborted sort of shrug. His gaze returns to the fire while he shakes out his cloak again. As he moves, Alucard sees three seemingly empty tankards sitting next to him, but he abandons the thought as Trevor speaks. “If I went to sleep now, this would either be frozen solid or moldy or _both_ by morning. If it freezes _I_  freeze, and if it rots you and Sypha will complain about the smell until the spring thaw. And, as much as I like listening to you two complain, I’d really rather not.”

Alucard raises an inquisitive eyebrow, though Trevor doesn’t look up from his halfhearted work to see it. “That’s considerate of you.”

That gives Trevor pause, halting his movements for a moment, before it picks back up again. He gives up on shaking the cloak out more, and opts to lay it out next to the hearth instead. Once he makes sure it's far enough away that it won’t catch fire in the night, he cards a hand through his hair a few times, a sorry attempt at drying it out.

“You know me, the picture of consideration. Truly, a saint. If you’re lucky, I’ll let you kiss my ass. Maybe I’ll let you bask in my glory a bit longer than the rest of the denizens.”

There it is again. _Glory_. The word bounces around in Alucard’s head a few more times. It sounds even more harmonic, even more fitting and _right_ coming from his drawling tone. A part of him wonders if Trevor knows, if he’s aware of the effect he had in that fight, but a larger part of him knows he doesn’t have a clue. He simply can’t. He wouldn’t be the same snarky, apathetic drunkard if he knew what kind of awe he inspired in others.

Instead of voicing any of his thoughts, Alucard quietly watches Trevor’s hands, the procedural _card-shake-card-shake_ as he leans over the fire. Tiny droplets land in the embers and turn to steam with small hisses, and they’re the only sound in the inn’s tavern other than their halted conversation. Apparently Trevor finds the silence uncomfortable, and turns his eyes from the fire towards Alucard, fixing him with a gaze that burns through his skin and into his soul. “You still haven’t told me what you want.”

And really, what does he want?

Trevor’s display in that fight was… incredible. Unexpected, in its intensity and gravity. Entirely _uncharacteristic_ considering his display of discipline thus far — frankly, none at all — but Alucard doesn’t know how to put the feeling into words that Trevor would take seriously. Alucard doesn’t know of any words Trevor would take seriously.

Does he want to thank him, for saving this town and its people? They all certainly would have perished without him, the wives and children and elderly and infirm. It’s nothing new, although it’s the first time Alucard has seen a horde attack first hand, the first time he’s seen Belmont take on this sort of iron-clad leadership. It’s nothing they won’t do again and again and again until Dracula and his armies are gone.

Does he want to thank him for the small glimmer of hope instilled by a simple shift in demeanor? It was certainly the most optimistic he had felt about their endeavor since his mother’s death. His heart had felt full to bursting during that fight. Even now that the fighting has ended, he still feels _warm_ for the first time in ages, a sort of deep-seated warmth that makes him think he'll never grow cold again.

Does he even want to thank him for anything? Is this strange, inarticulate feeling some unfamiliar brand of gratitude? In trying to get some base amount of serious conversation out of Trevor, Alucard is consistently met with nothing but smart remarks and jokes and deflections. But if anything is clear in the way he had stared at the fire, in the paradoxically guarded and unguarded look that was startled away like a fawn in the woods, it’s that something deeper is going on within his mind. Does Belmont want him to dig deeper? He'll likely be met with the same amount of resistance and avoidance as per usual.

Belmont isn’t as callous as he seems. He can't be. It must be an act, or—

Thoughts run ceaseless circles in his head, and so he gives up on them.

“What you did for those people,” the words start tentative, unsure of their place in the air, “it was…”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish the thought, before Belmont sighs and turns back to the fire.

“I know, I know. Reckless, foolish, too many injured and dead and it’s my own damn fault. Nothing I haven’t told myself a thousand fucking times before.” He gives up on his hair and stares down at his hands. They clench into fists for a split second before he pushes off his seat and meanders over to the bar, but not without a wobbly step here or there. The innkeep is absent — likely asleep — but Trevor makes it a point to help himself, grabbing a tankard and filling it with ale from a cask at random.

Taking full advantage of the town’s hospitality. It doesn’t surprise Alucard but his eyebrows furrow anyways, watching from his perch next to the fire and the three tankards he had emptied before.

“I was about to say impressive.” Trevor doesn’t answer, electing instead to down the ale in as few sips as possible before refilling the cup from a new cask.

Alucard almost wonders if he had heard, if he needs to repeat himself, before Trevor’s voice cuts across the room.

“Such high praise, you’d have thought I killed the poor wench myself.” He keeps his back turned to Alucard as he finishes the latter half of his ale. “Bet you were grateful for that lovely meal, _vampire._ You’re fucking welcome.” The bottom of the tankard hits the bar with a loud _thud_ when he slams it down, turning towards the hearth and Alucard. “Tell me, how’d she taste?”

Alucard, on the other hand, has no idea what he is talking about.

His mouth opens to voice his ignorance, but the look in Trevor’s eyes skewers him from across the room. Alucard hesitates just a moment too long before he starts back up again.

“You know what? Save it. I don’t care.” He turns towards the stairs to the rooms on the level above, hand flicking out in a careless gesture, as if swatting a fly from the air. “They’re probably better off with one less bloody corpse to burn tomorrow, anyway.”

Alucard isn’t an idiot. He’s got enough sense in his head to piece things together. He also knows Trevor well enough to know that he wouldn’t assume Alucard as low of a creature as the demons. The accusation is baseless, lashing out at the easiest target. He _gets_ that. He just doesn’t understand…

“I don’t know what you think I did,” he tries, and Trevor’s journey towards the stairs stutters to a halt, “but I’ll have you know that a great number of people will get another chance to live because you helped them tonight.”

“Another chance to die some other day. I’m no hero, I’m not their fucking _savior_.” He doesn’t make any further motions towards the stairs, to Alucard’s relief, but he can sense the agitation and self-loathing simmering beneath the surface, can sense the lingering and ever-present threat of Trevor simply storming away instead of facing this.

Alucard stands. The weak heat of the fire lingers closer now, casting his profile in an orange glow. “You taught them what to do to survive. ‘Salt kills demons,’ remember? They certainly will, next time a horde comes through this place.” His hand sweeps forward in a vague gesture towards the hunter. “And they will remember the man who taught them.”

Trevor fixes Alucard with a long, thoughtful look, before turning his torso to face him fully.

“You think they’ll remember me?” He takes a step forward, poking a finger into his chest. Then his posture straightens as he huffs a laugh as cold and bitter and aching as the snow outside. “Yeah, they’ll remember that dumb cunt who left them alone to fend for themselves. They’ll remember me when they’re dying and their loved ones are already dead and when they have _nothing left_ because I couldn’t stay here and help them. They’ll remember Trevor fucking Belmont, the drunkard who left an entire town to rot because apparently he had _better places to be._ ”

Alucard doesn’t know what to say. He opens his mouth and grapples with the words but none of them fit together properly. This is a side of Belmont he’s only seen coated in self-deprecating jokes, in jest and sarcasm. Never so harsh or raw or brutally honest.

A long moment stretches between them. When Alucard finally finds his voice, it hardly carries across the room.

“You can’t blame yourself for every city and village that falls to these beasts, Belmont. You’re only one man.” Alucard takes a few hesitant steps towards Trevor. “You do what you can, wherever you can. That alone is plenty.”

“If it was plenty then Wallachia wouldn’t be a fucking  _hellscape!_ If it was plenty then Dracula would be dead and I’d be out of a job. If it was plenty then that girl would _still be alive—_ ” His voice breaks as he cuts himself off, explosive anger melting into a myriad of emotions that shift too fast for Alucard to decipher. Belmont is the first to break eye contact and Alucard is somewhat thankful for it; he’s not sure he would be able to hold that gaze much longer.

A few different responses jump to Alucard’s lips but he sets them carefully aside.

“She looked so much like Elizabeth,” Belmont finally says. His voice is barely above a whisper. He hangs his head low, casting his features in shadow. “Her eyes, her hair, she was even dressed like a boy. They fought the same, too — scrappy, vicious little things. Runts, the both of them. Anklebiters. She couldn’t have been older than Elizabeth was when she…” Trevor’s face contorts into something spiteful to match his tone of voice. “When _they_ destroyed my family.”

It clicks. Alucard’s heart jumps up into his throat. Trevor's spite escalates into something dark and terrible and violent as he continues.

"She was nine fucking years old.  _Nine!_ They murdered my nine-year old sister because of her last  _fucking_ name!" Alucard flinches as Trevor throws his hands in the air, exasperated and seething. "And thank God they did! The world is so much fucking _safer_ without that fucking  _menace_  romping around with demons and witches and monsters!" Trevor looks up and points in an indeterminate direction, jaw clenched tight as his temper flares. “That girl out there was the only one of them who was brave enough — who _truly wanted_ to fight back against those fucking things. She wasn't scared. And look where it got her.”

A moment crawls by, steady and slow. The only sounds to fill the tavern are the errant crackles of the fire and Belmont’s steady, strong heartbeat as his chest heaves. That feeling Alucard had felt on the battlefield, that urge to protect, comes back tenfold.

Alucard reaches out slowly, giving Trevor a chance to shrug the contact before he rests a tentative hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t move away, and Alucard considers that a blessing, a minor miracle at the very least.

“I cannot pretend I understand your experiences. We lived completely different lives. But…despite what you say and how you act, I do know that you care, Belmont. And that alone, the depth to which you care, makes you stronger than I could ever imagine.” Alucard fights the urge to look away from Trevor’s unreadable stare. It's softer, now, like he's truly listening. Like he's been listening the whole time and hasn't bothered to show it until now. “You bear the weight of the world on your shoulders and think yourself weak when pieces fall off. It’s true that you cannot save everyone but the fact that you _try_ speaks volumes in itself.”

There’s a long, weighty silence. More thoughts bounce against each other in Alucard’s mind but he doesn’t let himself voice them. This isn’t about what Alucard thinks. It’s about Trevor Belmont: force of nature, unstoppable and unassailable. Trevor Belmont, of gracious heart and stalwart spirit. Trevor Belmont, who beneath the thick layers of sarcasm and vulgarity and drunkenness is the kindest soul Alucard has known other than his mother.

These thoughts threaten to burst forth, accumulating behind his teeth and waiting for escape.

"You're right. I know," Trevor says. The words barely fill the space between them, but they're enough.

"Then believe me." Trevor's eyes search for something in Alucard's. His pupils are blown wide, and Alucard can see a small sparkle where the fire reflects from behind him.

"Your sister would be proud."

The words burst forth faster than he can rein them back, faster than he can think. Trevor's shoulders tense beneath Alucard's hand. He crossed a line and he knows it and it's only a matter of time before Trevor is stomping away in a fervor.

And then Trevor scoffs, offers a gratuitous eye roll as he crosses his arms in front of his chest. “If I wanted someone to dissect my life like that I’d find a fortune teller to read my fucking tarot.” Just like that, the tension snaps in two, dissipating like morning mist and leaving the usual Belmont belligerence in its wake.

A sigh leaks out of Alucard’s lungs. The breath feels like it’s been festering there since the battle ended, since Trevor’s determination faded to this grim weight. Alucard is glad to be rid of it.

“I’m certain you'll be able to find one somewhere in town before we depart.” Alucard's hand slips from Trevor's shoulder and falls to his side.

Trevor ambles his way up the stairs, glancing back towards Alucard as he walks. A grin pulls at his lips, and he lets it show teeth. “To hell with that shit, I already know what my future has in store.”

A small smile finds a home on Alucard's face. “And what is that?”

“You two bitching about the cold when we leave this place tomorrow.” Trevor allows a thoughtful pause, swaying. “And more of that ale when the innkeep wakes up.”

Contentious and inebriated once again. Alucard smiles when Trevor turns away to resume climbing the stairs. All is not necessarily as all should be, but this openness is a good first step. The three of them may have a chance after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back to another exciting episode of Local Idiot Only Knows How To Write Song Fic, featuring special guest Castlevania.
> 
> This is VERY LOOSELY inspired by [The Last of the Real Ones](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7YAAyUFL1GQ). That song just makes me feel a very specific emotion — this sort of awestruck reverence for something beautiful and powerful — and I wanted to personify that. So, here we are, with fights and feels and… friendship?
> 
> Find me @ [shoutzwastaken](http://shoutzwastaken.tumblr.com) if you want to chill


End file.
